


jurisprudence

by gamblignant8 (maltesecaptainfalcon)



Series: Jurisprudence [1]
Category: Hiveswap, Homestuck
Genre: Hiveswap: Friendsim, Other, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, mspa reader is the best character in all of homestuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-27 17:00:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15689619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maltesecaptainfalcon/pseuds/gamblignant8
Summary: After a pretty pale first meeting in Hiveswap: Friendsim, the MSPA Reader returns to their friend Tyzias Entyyk's hive.





	jurisprudence

**TYZIAS**

You start awake with a snort, relishing the moment of oblivion before your awareness comes back. You must’ve fallen asleep in the bookhive again. Ugh. As you blink open your tired ganderbulbs and shift a bit, you recognize you’re not in a chair, slumped over on top of another pile of legal analysis papers and your sleepy thinkpan begins to connect the dots.

You sit up a bit on the pile of blankets and fumble for your glasses, slipping them on. The alien has their back to you and is leaning forward, sounding out letters in a book as they run a finger across the page. They don’t seem to have noticed you awake. You smirk a bit, thinking about how endearing this weirdo is. Like a lost juvenile barkbeast.

You can’t believe you spilled your guts to them. You’ve been careful, keeping your revolutionary sympathies subtle — not subtle enough for Sore-Gore, but who gives a flying fuck about what he thinks? But sitting here in the watchtower, looking out on the trolls trapped in a cruel system bigger than any of you, the weight of it all just felt like it was going to crush you. Talking to them helped.

You clear your throat a bit and the alien jumps, but their expression softens when they turn around. God, they look rough, but they’re still out here being friendly. You give them a little nod and raise your mug to them as you sip some cool water from it. “Thanks,” you manage, hoisting yourself up off the pile to stand and stare out the window at the late after-midnight sky. You think about what you’re about to say. You’re an extremely busy troll and already enough of a cull risk as it is. But, you look around at the sparse surroundings your new friend lives in and that _thing_ inside you that never lets you stop _trying_ kicks in. “If you need anything for this place, let me know. You know where I’m at.” Their happy little expression goes even brighter and they thank you profusely. Kind of a pushover? But you would be too if you landed on an oppressive murderplanet full of aliens that could almost all kill you.

You sling your book and folder under one arm, wish them well, and descend the watch tower. You want to kick yourself for sleeping when there’s so much _work_ to do but shit, were you ever tired. You can’t remember the last time you weren’t tired, you think, as you kick a rock down the street on the path back into Outglut’s streets. You make up your mind about tonight, and pull out your palmhusk to change your plans. First, you message your group partner.

TYZIAS (counterCounterrevolutionary [CC]) began pestering TAGORA (litigantMustela [LM])

CC: hey buttass  
CC: i knowwww i said i’d do the editing on our project mmmmyself but  
CC: i think i trust you to handle this simmmmple task  
CC: don’t mmmmake mmmme regret it

LM: Ohoho, finally asking for my help?  
LM: I’ll do it for my usual fee, of course.  
LM: *______

CC: did you read the part wwwwhere i said not to mmmmake mmmme regret it

LM: Of course. I just chose to disregard it, as per my usual wisdom.  
LM: You met the neighborhood’s new favorite human, I heard?  
LM: *______

CC: yeah. they seemmm to like you so im wwworried they mmmay have sommme sort of alien-atmmmosphere induced delusion  
CC: other than that  
CC: it’s nice to have sommme outside perspective on our shithive mmmaggots planet

LC: They cut quite the charming figure.  
LC: Try not to get my associate culled with your rabble-rousing, will you?  
LC: *______

CC: ugh shut up

counterCounterrevolutionary [CC] ceased pestering ambulantCarinvora [AC]

You take your new friend’s advice, still a bit embarrassed by just how pathetic you must’ve come off at first meeting. Just this once, you’ll let someone finish your work. Instead of the bookhive, you make the turn toward your matesprit’s.

You’re going to do everything you can to fix things. But, right now, an evening in with them would be good for you.

* * *

**THE ALIEN**

It’s been about a week since Tyzias invited you to come by if you needed anything. You try not to impose too much or too quickly on your new friends! You’ve kept up on your weird bugphone, though, enough to know that while she’s _trying_ , she’s not really relaxing much more than she was when you met, often working through the day, cooped up in her hive. 

It’s another day where you wake up with messages timestamped throughout the last 12 hours. They’re little voice clips, (despite your best effort, anything complicated in written Alternian is still escaping you) introducing you to the work she’s doing finding legal precedent for the prosecution of indiscriminate highblood killers. She rambles on with that enthusiasm in her sluggish voice that she gets when talking about making change, but you can hear how tired she is, too. She even pauses to yawn in one of the messages. You decide to take matters into your own hands. The hands…of FRIENDSHIP.

You clamber down from your makeshift watchtower hive, careful not to get your dress (which, let’s be clear, has seen better days) caught on the rusted ladder.

You’ve already started thinking of this time after the angry sun sets as “morning.” It’s the warmest time of the day, so you honestly are a bit grimier than usual by the time you show up at her door and gently knock. If she’s actually asleep, you don’t want to wake her.

Judging by the shuffling you hear inside, though, she’s still up and at ‘em. When the door to her hive slides open, your face probably doesn’t hide the concern. The bags under her eyes are even more pronounced, like big teal bruises underlining her glance. Her shirt is rumpled and wrinkled. When she sees you she gets a little half-smile on her face, eyes narrowing just a little bit. It’s nice to inspire that look. Every time an inhabitant of this strange planet looks at you fondly, or you can make a day better or stop some injustice, you feel no regret at your fateful journey in a stolen ship.

“Well,” she says, _w_ slow and delivered with a side of vocal fry, “If it isn’t the neighborhood’s favorite alien.” She steps aside and gestures in with her mug hand. “Welcome to the hottest club in town.” She says every one of her sarcastic remarks in a totally deadpan way, no indication she’s joking. It makes jokes that’d be trite hilarious, the way she presents them with a lazy earnestness. In another world, one not so transparently in need of fixing to her, she’d make a great stand-up comedian, a troll Tig Notaro.

You walk in to take in her hive. It’s a lot cleaner than you expected. No dishes pile up and the floors look good, the trash looks newly taken out. The only clutter is clothes and blankets. Jackets and cardigans are draped over or on every seat at the sturdy slate table and across the couch. A notable cocoon of blankets has been constructed between the coffee table and the couch. On the coffee table her husktop sits, flanked by huge books all marked with tons of colorful bookmarks.

A few weeks ago, you would’ve been totally freaked out by a laptop made of bug! Now you’re riding a wave of acceptance regarding previously-gross insectoid technology. Your palmhusk doesn’t squirm. Much. Cultural understanding really has carried you far. You remark that Tyzias looks like she’s been hard at work. And sounded like it.

“Oh, yeah, sorry about the messages. I was going pretty crazy about this stuff overday.” She pushes her glasses up a bit, waving you over lazily to sit at her table. You move a jacket off the chair opposite the one she’s hovering over and watch as she slumps over in the chair, looking for all the world like she’s fighting just flopping face-first onto the table. She really was up all night. And maybe all night before that. You should’ve come by sooner.

“You should’ve come by sooner,” she says, “I had no idea you still, like, needed clothes and stuff.” She chuckles a bit. Honestly, you’ve made a lot of great, important or clown-related memories in this dress, but you maybe should’ve been putting a higher priority on replacing it. You’ve been busy making friends! “You don’t know how much it means to me to have a bigger disaster walk into my door. Go use the ablution trap and steal some of my clothes. Like. Multiple sets. I’ll make some breakfast.” Used to building new uneasy friendships and helping others solve their problems for a while, you appreciate the blunt voice of a friend getting you to look out for yourself. You’ll return the favor after you clean up. Secure your own oxygen mask before helping other passengers.

So you enter her bedroom — respiteblock, right, you’re immediately reminded of the distinction when you see the weird slime tube bed — and there’s worn clothes scattered all over the floor by the closet, but plenty more hanging up in there. You close the door behind you and fold up your now-pretty-ragged dress. You head into the ablution trap room, and it’s much less decadent than Tagora’s. For one, you’re at no risk of accidentally using a very expensive skincare product, since she just has a block of soap and one plastic bottle of goo in her stand-up, stone-tile-floored shower. You guess the socks and sandals look she rocks should’ve prepared you for combined shampoo and conditioner. You can practically hear _it’s mmmore efficient_ in her languid voice and decide to skip asking about it.

When you walk back into her room, you pick out some stuff to wear for the first time since Cirava’s house and Chixie’s dressing room. Your worst fears about troll underwear are, thankfully, baseless. You put on a neatly folded pair of what are basically boxer briefs and a set of, you guess, black troll skinny capris. You’re not exactly drowning in fashionable options here, but you do notice that none of her loose and comfy clothes — nothing particularly feminine, but more business-like than Elwurd’s punk look — bear her sign. Just the pin she sports. Huh. You slip on one of her button-ups and it’s not too big on you. She’s taller, so you roll up the sleeves, but has about the same limited gun show you’ve got going on. You both have other priorities. Social priorities. FRIENDSHIP priorities.

Her clothes are nice, made of soft material but not thin. You remember she’s near the top of this social hierarchy, and think about how easy it would be for her to be like some of the other trolls you’ve met higher up the hemospectrum. Exploitative, brutal, a killer. You’re impressed at anyone who hasn’t let this oppressive state break them into its image. You stride back out into the hallway then to the kitchen. She’s plating what looks like sausage and scrambled eggs, and you are honestly no longer concerned about which of them are made from bugs. Breakfast made for you by a friend is good no matter what. And you don’t see any legs or anything. You’re surprised to smell coffee brewing and you sidle up next to her in the kitchen, grab a clean mug, and pour some. You offer it to her and she shakes her head _no_. “My matesprit likes it,” she offers as explanation.

It’s a nice coffee machine and good coffee just for someone else. You like this girl. You wish she’d take care of herself with the same focus she gave to others’ well-being. You make some conversation with her about what she’s working on, and you’re starting the grasp the implications of what has her obsessed. A significant number of corrupt officials and highbloods who killed indiscriminately were convicted in a wave of reforms about a hundred sweeps ago, but most of the records were scrubbed to avoid embarrassing powerful groups. She’s been cross-referencing as much contemporary legal material at the time to gather valuable precedent. She’s gesturing gently with her fork as she talks. _It’s an oligarchy, but it relies on the perception of its laws and traditions as permanent and unbreakable. If I find the right arguments to make letting the powerful go unchecked too embarrassing for the system governments and the Heiress, we can start turning the tide. Normalizing consequences._ The food’s long scarfed down by the time you’re done asking her questions. Every time you listen to her talk like this your head feels full and your heart aches a bit for just how much she’s trying to take on.

You believe in her so much, you tell her, but she needs to be sure to _make_ it to her exam. She sighs, looks to the side and tilts her head and raises her eyebrows a bit like she’s admitting something to herself. She gets up, takes your fork and plate and puts it in the dishwasher alongside her own, then walks past you without looking, flopping down on the pile of blankets on her floor. You turn to look at her and she waves you over, tired eyes smiling a bit. You go “alley-oop” and fall down across from her, and wow, these are nice blankets!

“Look,” she says, and her laconic demeanor doesn’t hide the fact that you have her full attention. “I’ve been thinking about this stuff for too long. You’ve been a big help, just listening. I really appreciate it, honestly. Me and my matesprit have a no-talking-about-work policy and it’s good to have that thing that’s separate, you know?” You nod. You try not to think about how much you’ve been distracting yourself from the magnitude of your problems with silly friendventures. “But it’s good to have someone to unpack shit with, too. So, you know,” she’s pursed her lips a bit and seems a little nervous — vulnerable in this moment — and you know how rare that is. “If you ever want to talk about the almost certainly buck-wild shit you’ve been through? I’m here to listen.”

You’ve never really spit it out at once, so you give Tyzias the blow-by-blow, from the hot dog guy to now. It’s somewhere in your description of Konyyl helping you down from a panic attack that the sheer magnitude of stuff that’s happened to you over the last few weeks is really set in. You realize your retelling is slowing up a bit and your heart’s ticked up a few BPM when your haze is interrupted by a cool hand on your face. Oh.

You look up and she’s looking at you in a way you don’t know how to summarize. A lot of concern is etched on her face, that much is clear, and you notice the bags under her eyes are matched by the beginnings of a teal flush on her cheeks. She _shh_ s you again and you get a flutter in your chest. You know what? Fuck it. You lean into her touch, and her hand moves up the side of your face to your hair, dull claws scratching your scalp in a way that feels excellent. She makes a quick little _hm_ , an almost cricket-like chirp. She sure is an alien! You’ve been in a lot of close calls, scraps, and otherwise uncomfortable physical situations (thanks, Zebruh) since you landed on this rock, but as you scoot a bit closer to her on the blanket pile, both of you sitting up and facing each other, you feel completely at ease with Tyzias Entyyk.

You lift an arm yourself and move it to the the side of her face, placing the other on her shoulder. Like with Polypa, this seems to elicit a physical reaction. Her nerves seem to evaporate away, the flush on her face intensifies, and the little chirr goes again, but this time you feel it as a slight rumble through her skin, like a cat purring. Woah. When she opens her eyes again there’s a total placidity in them, but different from the kind when you got high with Cirava.

Tyzias wraps her other arm around your back and pulls you close and! okay! You are cuddling with a cool alien! You’re wrapped up in her tall frame and resting your head on her sternum — or whatever it’s called, her _misery plate_ or something dumb, and she seems to sense you tense up a bit at the escalation, because she whispers, in a quiet, still-flat tone, “Is this okay?” You tilt your head up to look up at her and wow. Her face sure is close to your face. You can feel her cool breath. Suddenly you don’t have a lot of coherence, but you manage an enthusiastic nod. Her usual overwhelmed, sardonic expression has faded away, and she smiles a dorky little smile at that. If you thought that was cute, she then kisses your forehead with surprisingly-soft cool lips and pulls you back down, petting the back of your head with soft strokes.

Holy shit, you needed this. You feel like you’re melting into it, layers of figurative dirt washing off you like the real ones did in Tyzias’s ablution block. She feels like the other side of the pillow, comfortably cool but not cold. You imagine you must feel like you’re on fire to her, with how much you know you must be blushing.

“You should come over when you need to do laundry or restock on food, or whatever.” She says it matter-of-factly, like she’s made up her mind and this is the best plan for you now. You nod into her chest and don’t disagree, because you like the idea. You can feel that faint purring again, even if you can’t hear it.

“I don’t know if you had plans for today or anything…” You cut her off, telling her you’re fine to stay here as long as she wants. You feel her hand curl up in your hair when you say that. “Good, okay.”

You do stay there, feeling her breaths steady out into an even rise and fall. When they finally catch in that unmistakable pattern of sleep and her hands twitch a bit, you smile to yourself. Highly skilled cultural ambassador that you are, you’ve found yourself understanding moirallegiance better than you ever expected.

And whatever comes next, you think, as you close your eyes yourself, you have this.


End file.
